


Through the Looking Glass

by fireandhoney, Randomwordsonpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coffin Scene, Emotional Hurt, Episode Fix-It: s04e03 The Final Problem, Feelings, I Love You Scene (Sherlock: The Final Problem), Idiots in Love, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Love Confessions, M/M, Mirrors, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28490289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireandhoney/pseuds/fireandhoney, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomwordsonpaper/pseuds/Randomwordsonpaper
Summary: The steadiness in John’s voice made Sherlock look up, and for the second time, Sherlock was taken aback by the expression on John’s face. His dark blue eyes bore nothing but affection, and Sherlock knew John not only knew they weren’t getting out of this alive, but he had accepted it and was asking Sherlock to do the same.If we have to die today, at least we’ll die together—you and me, against the world.It's the coffin scene we deserved.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 140





	Through the Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Because the coffin scene felt unfair to both Molly's character and to Sherlock and John's relationship, fireandhoney and I decided that we HAD to fix it! So here it is; the "I Love You", drawn from someone else's lips...

**Through the Looking Glass**

As soon as the line was cut, Eurus’ voice filled the room through the speakers. 

“Now, back to the matter at hand. Coffin. Problem, someone is about to die. It will be, as I understand it, a tragedy. So many days not lived. So many words unsaid... Etcetera. Etcetera. Etcetera. Etcetera--” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently and started to pace. “And this, I presume, will be their coffin.” 

“Whose coffin, Sherlock? Please, start your deductions. I will apply some context in a moment.” 

John’s eyes stayed fixed on the screen, glowering at it. This needed to stop. These little games, the search for their breaking points, the taking of innocent lives... It needed to end. Now. 

Next to him, Sherlock sprang into action and walked to the coffin again. He huffed out some air, trying to clear his head and started his deduction. “Well, although the coffin’s opening is taller, allowing for the entirely pointless courtesy of headroom, I’d say this coffin is intended for someone of about 5’4” makes it more likely to be a woman.” 

Unable to resist the temptation of listening to another of Sherlock’s brilliant deductions, John turned his gaze away from the screen. “Not a child?” he asked, trying to follow the detective’s’ train of thoughts. 

“A child’s coffin would be more expensive. This is in the lower price range, although still best available in that bracket.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“This is a practical and informed choice. Balance of probability suggests that this is for an unmarried woman distant from her close relatives. That much is suggested by the economy of choice. 

Acquainted with the process of death, but unsentimental about the necessity of disposal. Also, the lining of the coffin--” 

“Yes, very good Sherlock. Or we could just look at the name on the lid.” 

John turned around, surprised to hear Mycroft’s voice. He had entirely forgotten the older brother was also in the room. He followed Sherlock and moved closer to the lid Mycroft was now holding towards them. “Only it isn’t a name...” Mycroft continued. 

There was a small, copper sign on the lid where one usually would engrave a name. Only now, it was replaced by three words. _I LOVE YOU._

Sherlock let out a shaky breath, the truth dawning on him. He closed his eyes and turned away. He placed his trembling hands on the edge of the coffin and stared into it, unable to speak. 

John was still trying to understand what was going on. “So, it’s for somebody who loves somebody.” 

“It’s for somebody who loves Sherlock.” Mycroft clarified as he turned towards his brother, placing the coffin lid back against the wall. He walked deliberately, and Sherlock knew the realisation wasn’t lost on Mycroft either. “This is all about you, everything here. So, who loves you? I’m assuming it’s not a long list.” 

“Irene Adler?” John suggested, walking back to join Sherlock by the coffin. 

“Don’t be ridiculous; look at the coffin. Unmarried, practical about death. Alone.” 

John didn’t miss the slight tremble Sherlock’s voice, but he couldn’t quite place it. He thought for a moment. Suddenly, another name came in mind. He swallowed, hating himself for the suggestion he was about to make. “Molly?” 

“Think it over, Dr Watson,” Mycroft intervened. Sherlock was torn between silently thanking him, and criticizing him for playing with John’s mind. He nodded solemnly, listening to his eldest as he answered John’s questioning look, stirring him in a bit in the right direction. “The headroom is, indeed, entirely pointless...” 

John looked at the coffin again, then at Mycroft. 

And then... 

It clicked. 

His heartbeat quickened; his breath caught in his throat. 

_Oh, no._

John shook his head, unable to accept the truth. He looked at Sherlock, hoping the detective would tell him he drew the wrong conclusion, but the look on Sherlock’s face told him something different. He opened his mouth to say something, but there was no sound. He needed to be sure, though. He needed someone to say it. Clearing his throat, he tried again, but this time, he was interrupted by Eurus’ voice over the speakers. They all turned back towards the screen again. 

“You’re perfectly safe, for the moment.” The screen switched to a timer. “This room is rigged to explode in approximately three minutes unless I hear the release code from his lips. I suggest you start discussing, Sherlock. Make him say it.” 

Without missing a beat, John turned to Sherlock. 

“Say what?” 

Sherlock flinched, closed his eyes in pain and shook his head towards the ground. The answer came from the speakers. 

“Obvious, Sherly.” 

John’s throat tightened, and he could feel the tension in the room vibrating on his skin. “No.” 

Mycroft’s diplomatic voice cut through the silence. “Yes.” 

John looked back at the engraved _I LOVE YOU_. His thoughts were interrupted once again by Eurus. 

“Oh, one important restriction. It has to be real. No funny tricks or clever codes; believe me, I will know. Make me believe it, Sherlock. If you do not succeed; I will end this session and your lives. Are we clear?” 

John saw Sherlock nod, but the detective still refused to face him. 

Moriarty’s face appeared on the screen, covered by a red filter. “Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.” 

Sherlock tensed at the sound of hearing Moriarty’s voice. He glared at the screen, unable to move. The timer that had appeared on the screen counted down, and he watched how the seconds passed. Someone started to shuffle on his feet, behind him, and the detective knew it had to be Mycroft. His brother always did that when he got anxious. John, on the other hand, was utterly silent. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft urged as he tried to force his brother into action. But Sherlock still didn’t take his eyes off the screen. 

After another long moment, the detective tilted his head towards the camera in the corner of the room. 

"Why are you doing this?” 

Moriarty immediately answered the question. “I told you, Sherlock. I told you I’d burn the heart out of you!” 

Sherlock’s entire body seemed to weaken, his head hanging softly forward. He let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes briefly. He knew what Moriarty was trying to do, and he knew it would work this time. He would indeed burn the heart out of him. 

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence until the detective came back to life with more energy than John had seen in him ever since they’d entered this hell. He turned on his heels and started walking towards John; his expression wasn’t one of excitement, but more of determination. John thought the only other time Sherlock had looked at him like that was before he’d shot Magnussen. This wasn’t a good sign. 

“Just pretend this is a sort of experiment.” 

“What?” 

“An experiment, John. For a case. Remember those? Please, do keep up.” 

Ah, there it was—the great detective’s brilliant solution. John’s blood boiled as he remembered how many times he’d uttered the same words. 

“I’m not an experiment, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock froze, almost crowding John’s space. His voice was rushed as he mumbled. “No, I know you’re not an experiment! You’re my friend! We’re... friends. But…” 

The silence stretched between them. 

“Please… Just...” 

John ran a hand over his face, turned away and escaped Sherlock’s proximity. He’d been a soldier, a doctor. He had watched friends get shot and many, too many people die, and others had considered him strong, the infallible one... But who was he kidding? He couldn’t kill a man earlier, a man who was begging for help; he most certainly couldn’t do this. 

“I can’t. Sorry, I can’t do it.” 

“John...” 

“I don’t... I can’t say that.” 

“Of course you ca--” 

John turned around with force; his fists clenched. “I can’t say that to you! Don’t you understand? I couldn’t say it back then; I couldn’t say it when you came back, I couldn’t bloody say it when you left again, I can’t–” 

“Don’t think about Mar—" 

“DAMN MARY!” 

John punched the wall next to him, then swore under his breath, holding his hurt knuckles. He turned back towards Sherlock, whose frown could have been worry or shock. Maybe it was both. He sucked in a deep breath in a desperate attempt to get his anger back under control. Knowing he couldn’t back out of this anymore, he tried to swallow past the lump in his throat and began to speak. 

“This isn’t... about Mary, it never was.” 

Sherlock looked straight into his eyes, and John felt a shiver running along his spine, knowing he was being deduced by the man in front of him once again. Apparently, the great detective didn’t find what he was looking for as he eventually looked away, and John’s gaze ended on Mycroft, who gave him a pointed look. 

“Soldiers.” 

John nodded sighing. He knew what Mycroft was trying to communicate. He needed to push through this; he needed to be brave. And he needed to be very, very clear. Mycroft turned around, offering them the tiniest bit of privacy they could have in this hell hole with a psychopath murderer watching them, and John couldn’t help but silently thank him. 

“It’s you, Sherlock. It’s always been you.” 

The room filled with silence once again, but John felt a rush of calm overtake his body this time. This was it. The words were out. They had been on the edge, about to spill, for years, and now they were finally out in the open. 

Falling. 

He wondered if this was how Sherlock had felt all those years ago at Bart’s—a moment frozen in time. In acceptance of whatever was to come next. There was nothing he could do about it. Nothing, except to watch how Sherlock processed this new piece of information and to wait for a response. 

Sherlock’s eyes found John’s and they stared at each other, defiance and strength carving the doctor’s features as he scanned Sherlock’s face. For once, he wasn’t the only one who was able to deduce. He searched the detective’s eyes until John saw his walls come down, the way they only did when it was just the two of them; in their domestic life at Baker Street, talking over some takeaway or working - Sherlock deep in a case and John typing at his blog - and their eyes would meet, acknowledgement of the other’s presence and comfort. 

“If that’s true, you can say it anyway,” Sherlock stated in a neutral tone that would have fooled anyone, but not John. Never John. He raised an eyebrow, unsure himself if it was disbelief or offence showing on his face. 

  
“That’s not how this works, Sherlock. You don’t get to pretend you’re above it all. You know damn well I stopped believing you were emotionless years ago.” 

“What?” 

“ _You_ say it,” John dared. “Go on. Say it first. You owe me this much.” 

Sherlock blinked, unable to process the sudden turn of events. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Hadn’t John been listening? _He_ had to be the one to say it, not the other way around. Eurus had been extremely clear about that. The words had to come from John’s lips, not from his own. So why didn’t John just say it? 

“I...” 

“You pretended to be dead for two years, Sherlock,” John hissed through gritted teeth as he took a step in Sherlock’s direction, still holding the detective’s gaze. “Two. Bloody. Years.” 

The words pierced through his heart like the sharpest knife, and Sherlock sucked in a breath. He let his gaze drop to the floor, unable to look at the doctor any longer. 

It would always come down to this. 

He believed they were past this, he really did. Things had been good between the two of them, even after Mary, after Magnussen. He’d even dared to say things had been like old times, like before... With a jolt, Sherlock realised this wasn’t John who was holding a grudge against him. This was John who was trying to tell him something, to communicate. 

And suddenly, he knew why John wanted Sherlock to be the one who said it. He didn’t mention this painful event of their past because he was angry. It was because from that moment; John had started to doubt if his feelings would ever be reciprocated. John could never say those words if he couldn’t be sure he would ever hear them back. 

He knew what he had to do. The detective opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. His eyes screwed shut tightly in frustration as he tried to swallow past his own fear. He took a deep breath and tried again. 

“I love you.” 

John’s breath caught, and he swallowed. Was this real? This couldn’t be real... Was it? How many times, how many times had he desperately hoped to hear those words, those little words he’d been too scared, too weak to say, to ask for, to seek. Those words he’d wanted to say all those years ago, with a bomb strapped to his chest and a psychopath taunting him. Words he’d hidden as Irene Adler had tried to pry them from him in an abandoned warehouse. Words he’d regretted losing as he talked to that black tombstone. Words he’d almost yelled on the tarmac towards the plane taking away his one true chance at happiness, words he’d almost mumbled on his stag night so many times he’d fallen asleep with them on his tongue, words that had burned his lips every day for years. Words he’d killed for, words he’d die for. 

" …John?” 

Sherlock didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t complete silence. His brows curled in confusion and he looked up in time to witness John’s features journey from pure shock, to confusion, to disbelief. It appeared John was searching him, trying to read him, and he liked what he found because John’s eyes brightened as his lips curled into a smile, into an expression Sherlock thought he’d never see again. An expression usually associated with an “Amazing!” or “Extraordinary!” And Sherlock couldn’t stop the smirk painting his own face with the same happiness those words always brought him, filling him with warmth and an overwhelming desire to make sure the man in front of him never stopped smiling. 

“I love you, John.” 

" …John?” 

John didn’t miss the slight quiver in Sherlock’s voice, and he suddenly realised how scared the detective must be. Not frightened that he was about to die, but scared to die without hearing those three words from John’s lips. 

Fighting the urge to take his friend in his arms, John hesitantly stepped forward. When Sherlock didn’t step back, he reached out and took the detective’s hand in his, his thumb brushing across the back of his hand ever so slightly. 

With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock looked down at their joined hands. For a moment, maybe only a second, he allowed himself to focus solely on the feeling of John’s warm skin against his. No coffin, no timer, no Eurus... For a moment, it was only him and John, and nothing else. 

But the nervous shifting from Mycroft’s direction made Sherlock painfully aware they only had seconds to spare before this would all end. 

He knew he had to try one more time. 

“John ple--” Sherlock started, but a soft squeeze made him stop and look up into John’s ocean blue eyes. They were glistening with unshed tears. 

“I love you.” 

Silence fell upon them once again, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. They stared at each other until a loud beep startled them, and Sherlock looked at the screen. The timer had stopped with 7 seconds left. All that could be heard was the two men’s quick breathing until Mycroft’s voice cut through the air sharply. 

“Sherlock, however hard that was...” 

It felt like a slap across John’s face when Sherlock let go of his hand and started pacing the room. “Eurus, the girl on the plane, we need to talk to her.” 

John ran a hand over his face as Sherlock’s heels clicked on the floor for a moment before he stopped, facing the screen. “I won. Eurus, I won. He said the code; we’re saved.” 

Eurus appeared on the screen with a grin on her face. “Saved? from what?” she chuckled. “Oh, do be sensible, there were no explosives in your little room. Why would I be so quick to end the fun? You didn’t win, you lost. Look what you did to your friend. Look what you did to yourself. All those complicated little emotions, I lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time.” 

Sherlock turned away from the screen, put the gun down next to the coffin and started pacing, unable to listen any longer as realisation dawned upon him. 

“Now please, pull yourself together, I need you at peak efficiency,” Eurus’ voice continued through the speakers. “The next one isn’t going to be so easy.” 

With a click, a door slid open. 

“In your own time.” 

Sherlock ignored it. He walked away from Mycroft, away from John. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t face John. Not now that he realised Eurus was right. He hadn’t won, he lost. Because knowing how they felt about each other and not being able to act on it was far worse than not knowing at all. 

Mycroft was the first to start towards the door slowly. When he only heard one pair of footsteps following, he turned around in the doorway and looked at his little brother who stood, his back towards him. He knew Sherlock was having a hard time, but he also knew he wasn’t the person who could help him. He glanced over at John, who stood in the middle of the room, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Their eyes met briefly before the older Holmes brother sighed and turned away, hoping the doctor would be able to give Sherlock the strength to proceed. 

John lingered a moment longer before he turned back to Sherlock and approached him. “Sherlock...” He watched how Sherlock tensed, turned towards him, put his trembling hands across his face and slid down against the wall in defeat. 

For a moment, John didn’t know what to do. It hurt, seeing Sherlock like this. Sherlock had always been the fierce one whose focus and stamina established the rhythm of their adventurous life throughout their friendship. Even with Moriarty, even with Magnussen, Sherlock had been ready to do anything, to face the worst, and his determination had never wavered. He’d been prepared to die; he’d been prepared to kill, and all for... 

Unable to look at the broken man in front of him any longer, John let eyes travel from Sherlock to the wooden lid that stood against the wall beside him. The copper sign glistened in the dim light, and John couldn’t suppress the small smile and the warm feeling the three little words had given him. 

It only lasted a second, because just as fast, his smile faltered as realisation dawned upon him. He knew what Sherlock must be thinking. Of course, the detective would conclude more quickly than John. He always did. 

But somewhere deep down, John had known all along. He had always known it that would end like this. Even now, the words were out there in the open; it just wasn’t meant to be. They would not make it, not this time. There wasn’t a faked death to come back from this time, a criminal mastermind to show up and make the plane turn around, no Mycroft who could save them. 

Without thinking, John moved forward and took the lid in his hands. He walked towards the coffin and carefully closed it. The panic he felt during his moment of realisation made way for acceptance and resignation. Because even though they wouldn’t survive this, he knew his love was being reciprocated, and that was enough. 

He only had to make sure Sherlock knew that as well. 

John took a deep breath, straightened his back and squared his shoulders, ready to face what was coming. Picking up the gun in his hand, he approached Sherlock. “Look,” he started, his voice surprisingly calm and steady. “I know this is difficult, and I know you are being tortured. But you have got to keep it together, yeah?” 

Sherlock didn’t respond right away. He knew John was right; he knew he had to continue. But he just... couldn’t. 

"It is not me I care about, John,” Sherlock spoke, his voice barely a whisper. 

"I know." 

The steadiness in John’s voice made Sherlock look up, and for the second time, Sherlock was taken aback by the expression on John’s face. His dark blue eyes bore nothing but affection, and Sherlock knew John not only knew they weren’t getting out of this alive, but he had accepted it and was asking Sherlock to do the same. 

_If we have to die today, at least we’ll die together—you and me, against the world._

"Don’t let her distract you,” Mycroft’s voice cut through the silence. 

Sherlock glanced over to the doorway where his older brother stood and realised he was right. With enough renewed strength to continue, and the realisation John would be there by his side no matter what, he braced himself. 

"Soldiers?” 

John nodded. "Soldiers.” 

With that, John reached out his hand and helped Sherlock up. He gave him a soft, reassuring squeeze before letting go of the detective’s hand and handing him the gun. Sherlock turned away from him and started walking, and just for a second, John allowed himself to close his eyes and blew out a breath. 

Then, he followed Sherlock to the next room, bracing himself for whatever came next. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: the title of this fic came from three different angles. First of all, it's a reference to Alice in Wonderland, where she goes through the other "real" world, the whole thing about reality being fake and alternate universes being more true than we think.  
> Secondly, we felt that Molly is John's mirror in the show (for instance, in the scene where she takes over John's role in TEH).  
> And last, it's a reference to the season 4 promo that showed Sherlock looking in the mirror, at John, with the caption "I Love You".
> 
> As always, we love to hear what you think! <3


End file.
